A Day In The Life Of Claire's Shoes
by Lord Kristine
Summary: This is the story of a pair of shoes.


The word "stiletto" was originally used to describe a type of dagger. This is very much appropriate, because whenever Claire Dearing wears her beige, high-heeled shoes, she feels like she's arming herself against whatever she must face on that particular day. Her shoes are unaware of her sentiments, because they are shoes, and shoes are not alive.

But what if they were?

How many volumes could a pair of shoes speak if they had the mouths for it? What stories would arise if they could make us understand their strange world? They are not simply footwear, after all. They witness the entirety of Claire's day, from the moment they are put on to the moment they are taken off. They are not alive, but there is life in them.

This is their story.

It begins in the morning. Claire is already dressed and ready to go. She is wearing makeup that took her a very long time to put on. Of course, the shoes cannot see this, because they are shoes. What they experience is somewhat different from human perception. For example, while they do not see what's going on, they can feel Claire's feet slipping into their bodies. The shoes have molded to the shape of her sole, or maybe it's the other way around. In any case, Claire stands a little taller whenever she wears them.

Stepping with a steady rhythm, Claire gets into her car and drives to work. She's an expert at pressing the pedals with her heels. Her shoes have noticed that she has a peculiar habit of tapping her toes whenever she's stopped. She'll pump the brake anxiously, maybe whispering a few words to pass the time. Then she's off and moving again.

When Claire arrives at work, her shoes become relatively still. They twitch and wiggle slightly when she sits at her desk, and sometimes, she'll cross her legs the other way. Her shoes know that there is a record player across the room, and every day, they wonder if she'll dance to its music, but she keeps it hidden away where no one can see. One of her shoes feels a pencil land on its toe. Or maybe it's a pen, because Claire is rubbing at the shoe furiously with a damp tissue. Her shoes wonder why she can't allow them to have a single scuff. The point of shoes is to protect their owner from the ground, after all. Why does she cherish their purity to the point of putting it before her own needs?

Out of the blue, Claire's shoes become bolted to the ground. She has realized something, and is pressing her heels into the carpet nervously. Her shoes know what has happened. They can almost feel her reaching up to her neck. She's forgotten. Her gold necklace is sitting on her bedside table in a delicate swirl.

Claire is starting to panic. Her feet are trembling with the rest of her, and her toes are grabbing at the base of her shoes helplessly. And then something peculiar happens. There is a slight pressure on the inside of the shoes, and then they disappear altogether. They are not aware of what happens for a good fifteen minutes, because they do not exist. Then, they reappear, and Claire starts shaking, but in a tired kind of way. Her left shoe shifts to the side slightly, and a teardrop lands on its rim.

Eventually, Claire goes back to her work, and her shoes are once again forced into their banal routine. They can tell that she is skipping lunch, because her movements are becoming sluggish. Is she afraid of gaining weight? Is she afraid that she'll get relish on her shoes? She will never tell a soul.

Eventually, though, she is forced to get a snack. She walks down the hall, making that usual click-click-click sound that she is so fond of. All of a sudden, she accelerates. She is like a watch being wound forward. This hurried pace can only mean one thing.

Sure enough, Claire's shoes change direction, as she has decided to turn and face her pursuer. Her shoes nearly come into contact with another pair. They are dusty, rugged, and full of holes. The elegant form of Claire's shoes stands in stark contrast to their primal shape. This man's shoes do not make him look tall, nor do they make him look particularly fancy. Their coloring is uneven, probably due to the oil from some sort of vehicle. Judging by the loose bows, the owner of the boots is not very good at tying regular knots.

These are not the same shoes he wore yesterday. It's strange that Claire is the one who never changes her footwear, but maybe that just means this man is more adaptable. He's suited for many lives, whereas Claire is comfortable being the best at what she does, and nothing else. But that's the way it should be. Claire, after all, is at the top of the food chain. She is not meant to be a bottom-feeder or a prey item or a herbivore. She is the hawk. She is the T-Rex.

But then the two shoes touch. For a moment, there is a glimmer of recognition, of excitement. This feels like it's meant to be. But then they break contact, and the moment is forgotten. Claire's shoes click down the hall, but somehow, the noise seems different. Emptier.

Claire returns to her office, and her shoes once again go back to their usual routine. They are bored by this, though they'd never admit it. They would much prefer a glimmer of contact, or-

She's walking. She's walking towards the record player. This is it. She's going to dance again.

But she doesn't. She passes right on by and makes her way down the hall. Her shoes cannot look back, nor can they look at all. But they give the sense of staring longingly. She is not dancing. She will never dance. What do they have to look forward to?

Even through their misery, they carry a faint hope that Claire will bring herself closer to the man's shoes. It is a dull wish that holds no weight. They know that she is going home. But they can still dream.

After a long drive, Claire's shoes are ready to be put away. Instead of feeling the cold stone outside of her residence, however, they sink into a grassy patch of dirt. The soil is fertile here, and if the shoes could see color, they have no doubt that everything in sight would be green. They feel the grass thinning out, as if they are approaching a path that has been frequently used. When the shoes feel wooden steps on their bases, they know exactly where they are. This is where the man lives. This is his home. She is standing at his front door. All she has to do is knock.

Knock.

Knock!

But she doesn't. She wheels around and gets back in her car.

When she gets home, she doesn't take off her shoes for a very long time. She sits on a bench and runs her hand over them tenderly. She has nothing to fear by taking them off in her own home. Nothing can hurt her here. And yet, she pauses. Not for long, but long enough.

Then she removes her shoes, ignoring the blisters on her heels.

Tomorrow will be the same.


End file.
